


Forlorn Homecoming

by lady_summoner



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavensward Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_summoner/pseuds/lady_summoner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warrior of Light's return to Ishgard quickly turns from bittersweet to fearful, and three men find they can only watch and pray for her survival.  Four short drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Edmont

**Author's Note:**

> A 'what-if', takes place shortly after the WoL’s return to Ishgard. Let’s be honest people-all the fights, including Mr. ‘IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR’, the Ascian married couple, and finally the Pope and all his minions…you’d be damn near dead too.

Sitting in the darkened room, the Count finds himself once again with time on his hands to think.  Yet another curse of his age-he has reached the point where it seems life’s gifts are unkind now, instead of joyous.  His leg throbs every so often, as it is wont to do when the weather is particularly cold in the city.  For now he has chased away his stubborn sons who want him to rest-this is something they could do, but Edmont’s will is unyielding in this matter.  He will stay in the room tonight, offering his prayers to Halone-that she will not take the Warrior of Light away, that the small form lying motionless in the bed next to him is refused admittance to the war-goddess’ hall, that the goddess herself shows mercy.  For the Warrior is young-far too young to die.  Far too young to fight as well, to bear the burdens that have fallen on her shoulders…  As his leg throbs again, Edmont shifts position.  His eyes flick to the still form of the Warrior of Light, the only evidence of her living being the shallow rise and fall of her chest.  Again the memory of five bells ago rises to the forefront of his mind, repeating itself like a bad song.

 

_A shocked cry from Alphinaud had him whirling around.  The Warrior of Light has fallen behind their group, and is just standing where she is on the staircase.  Her hand is pressed to her side-and with horror, Edmont sees blood seeping into the fabric around the fingers-too fast, his old soldier’s mind notes.  Within a matter of minutes that side of her tunic is soaked, and the Warrior of Light pulls her hand away to stare at it.  A dazed expression crosses her features, and she looks up at Artoirel and the others._

_“I thought I healed that.”  She says.  “I’m certain…I did heal that.”  Her skin is paling as she speaks, and she looks down at her hand again.  “I healed it so that Y’shtola would not worry about it…”  Now she is trembling from head to toe.  With dawning horror Edmont watches as she starts to crumple forward, eyes glazing over.  Aymeric is lightning-quick, catching the Warrior in his arms, a hand reaching out to press down on the open wound in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding.  Edmont hears his voice as if from a distance, barking orders for someone to rush ahead to the manor and alert the chirurgeons.  Ys’htola is by Aymeric’s side, the green aether of conjurery about her hands.  Then it is her turn to cry in alarm, her healing was not taking hold.  From then it seemed like hours, but was only a matter of minutes that Aymeric got the Warrior of Light to the manor-and into the hands of the awaiting chirurgeons.  There the group learned that the situation was far worse than they thought. Not only had the Warrior of Light lost a great deal of blood, but she was nearly drained of all her aether.  Returning to Ishgard with Midgardsormr to tell them of what had transpired in Azys Lla had taken the last of her strength, and her body had given out from the stress.  Hearing the news, Aymeric had demanded to know **exactly what** had happened in the Allagan city.  Shaken, Alphinaud told him-the Warrior had to contend with the Garleans that were making their way into the heart of Azys Lla, fight two Ascians, and then finally deal with the Archbishop and the full Heavens’ Ward…_

Edmont closed his eyes, forcing the memories away.  Guilt threatens to overwhelm him-he feels partly responsible for this, for adding more burdens on those suddenly too-small shoulders.  The death of Haurchefant is still a raw wound in his spirit, if his son’s dear friend were to join him…  Feeling all the years of his age, all Edmont can do in the darkness is pray.


	2. Artoirel

In the battle of wills between him and his father, he had finally come out the victor.  When it became clear that the Warrior of Light would not open her eyes-this her full first morning back in Ishgard, Artoirel had set his teeth and moved to confront his father once more.  The Count was still grieving for Haurchefant, and it was all too easy for grief to turn into sickness…far easier for anyone opposing Aymeric’s plans and his allies to use this time to try something.  It was heartless and cruel, but Count Edmont needed to rest, and also to keep an eye on the situation.  With this logic Artoirel spoke to his father, feeling guilt when he saw the count’s shoulders sag in reluctant understanding.  Hastily he promised that if there was any change, Edmont would be the first to know, but that was poor comfort to offer his father, and Artoirel watched with a heavy heart as the older elezen left.  Now it was his turn to sit by the Warrior of Light’s bedside, and Artoirel did so, tugging his chair closer.  Unable to help himself he reached out, slipping a hand under the covers to press two fingers against a small wrist.  A low breath escapes him as he felt a pulse.  It was faint, but still there.

“I studied conjurery.”  He spoke, his voice low.  “Not-not much, as you probably could tell.  But enough to be useful in a battle.”  He didn’t want to pull his fingers away, not just yet.  He needed that assurance that on some level, she was alive.  “I started to when Mother was sick.  A knee-jerk reaction I suppose, to what ailed her.”  With a breath he forced himself to let go, making sure the covers are tucked in-the Warrior needed all the heat that could be given to her.  The blood loss had been severe, and adding in aether drain of the magnitude that she had…  Artoirel bowed his head, closing his eyes.

“Your aether became unwoven.”  He speaks, needing to fill the silence of the room.  “It was only strong enough to keep the wound closed for so long-but I suppose flying on the back of a dragon and our city’s stairs would…”  He trails off.  The words are there, but he doesn’t know how to say them.  The Warrior’s devotion to her duty far surpasses his own, and her arrival had been perfect.  Had she and the others been absent any longer, unrest would have begun to stir.  With a sigh, Artoirel opened his eyes and reached out again-he shouldn’t, but…  Again he felt the faint pulse, part of his mind noted that there was no change, news that was both good and bad.  

“Please live.”  He said.  “Please, you must…”  Trailing off, he looked at the window of the bedroom, and then back at the still form of the Warrior of Light.  “Haurchefant would be unhappy if you joined him.  And we…we all would never forgive ourselves if you left.”  On that he could relate, he had a hard time forgiving himself for his treatment of the Warrior the first time she had come to Ishgard.  Being one who dealt with and saw grudges that could last for more than one lifetime…her easy forgiveness of his actions had been baffling.

_There are no hard feelings, my lord._  A warm smile-one that took his breath away from the sheer heart of it.   _Think nothing of it._   The memory made Artoirel press his lips together.  Haurchefant had been the same.  Ishgard was poorer for his death, and if the Warrior of Light could not hang on…  

“I have one funeral that already will be hard for me.”  He whispered.  “Please forgive this selfish request…but I could not bear to go through another.”


	3. Aymeric

Guilt.  It’s always there.  It hovers over his shoulder, twists his stomach into knots, it’s an insidious whisper in the back of his mind.  This is his fault…all of it.  He had started this chain of events when he had gone to confront his father.  Never mind that the Archbishop and his minions are dead-Aymeric finds that he cannot summon any shred of grief for the man he knew as father, surely that was another sin to be added to his rapidly-growing list.

“My lord?”  Aymeric looks up, Lucia is standing before him.  She looks both grim and worried, a look that’s been on her face well before the Warrior of Light’s return to Ishgard.  She will not admit it, but Aymeric knows he’s been a worry for her ever since Haurchefant’s death.  “The messenger came from Fortemps Manor-I took the news from him and said I would bring it to you myself…”  She trails off, and Aymeric feels his gut twist.

_Please no.  Please.  Halone please…_

“She’s still alive-”

_Halone thank you, thank you…_

“But she hasn’t awakened.  The chirurgeons are saying that it’s still due to the aether and blood loss, that she just needs time…”  Lucia trails off; she knows that Aymeric knows that the last statement was weak.  Aether can be a tricky and dangerous thing, and the healers have been feeding the Warrior the strongest aetherial potions the city’s best alchemists can offer, to help restore her near-vanished supply.  Aymeric bows his head, fingers curling into fists.  His ribs and back ache-the bone bruises from his stay in the Vault haven’t completely healed as of yet, but they’re nothing compared to the mental pain he feels right now.

“If she dies, it will be my fault.”  He says, voice low.  Lucia shakes her head almost violently.

“My lord, no!”

“I asked her-no, I _begged_ her to go to that hellspawned place!  I should not have asked her to take on such a duty!”  Against logic however, the words are partly hollow.  Aymeric knew that he had needed to stay; Ishgard couldn’t be left without at least one stable leader.  He had no business fighting gods-that was under the ken of the Warrior of Light.  

“Lord Commander, you couldn’t have known what she would encounter there.”  Lucia’s voice is almost pleading.  “None of us knew.  You know that on the field of battle, the situation can change at any moment.”  Aymeric hears the clink-clink of her armor as she walks around his desk to kneel by his side, daring to rest one plated-mail hand on his arm.  “You must not second-guess yourself.  Your decisions were correct given the situations and information available to you.”

“I have their blood on my hands, Lucia.”  Aymeric feels Lucia jerk in shock, but he doesn’t look at her, his eyes still fixed on his lap.“Haurchefant’s blood, because like a fool, I thought my father would see reason.  Her blood, because she nearly killed herself to end his madness and came then rushing back here…”

“No one can fault you for believing that the Archbishop would be reasonable.”  Lucia urges.  “What could you have done?  Called him out publicly and so have started even more chaos?  He was the fool; this matter could have been resolved with a measure of relative peace.” Aymeric does not respond, lifting his free hand to rub at his temples.  “He is the one to blame for Haurchefant’s death, and he certainly can be blamed for the Warrior of Light’s condition.”  A heavy sigh comes from Aymeric, and he leans back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling.  Lucia is right of course, but it doesn’t change how he feels.  At the end of the day, it’s the feelings that one must grapple with, not logic.  

“…Am I needed for anything more?”  He asks.  Lucia takes a deep breath.

“Aye.  Ser Heustienne and…Ser Alberic are here.”  She answers slowly.  “They…know something has happened to Estinien, but not the specifics.”  Dread fills Aymeric, this was something he had been trying to delay.  And right now, he just wants to go to Fortemps Manor and check on the Warrior of Light himself…but duty comes first, head before heart…  Drawing in a deep breath, Aymeric straightens in his chair.

“Show them in, please.”


	4. Warrior of Light

The pain is what she first feels-a continual throb from her head down to her toes.  Her brain latches onto the sensation, she can recognize what it is-the bone deep pain of aether-drain.  Never a good idea in any circumstance, even more so with the type of power she can wield.  Then she hears sound-the wind whistling outside, and she can feel a softness beneath her-a bed, her brain supplies.  With a low groan, the Warrior of Light’s eyes slit open-even that small action _**hurts**_. 

_Where…where am I?_  It is pitch dark, the only illumination that she can make out is a muted glow from off on her left…a window with a streetlamp outside.  Too tired to panic at being in strange surroundings, the Warrior closes her eyes, trying to gather her bearings.  Training and experience has taught her to gather what information she can first-and it’s not as if she can get up and run away.  As she tries to focus, the memories come up in a disorganized swirl…

_The feel of Midgardsomr’s back beneath her, the sound of the Excelsior’s engines.  Landing in Ishgard, seeing bows draw back with arrows pointed at her, and then Aymeric holding up a hand._

_“I daresay you are the first soul in Ishgardian history to arrive in our city upon dragonback.”  
_

_Then before that-an arid smell, the feel of unfamiliar aether on her skin.   Exhaustion-facing down a deity-Thordan and the Heavens’ Ward-_

_“Who--no, what are you?!”_

_The panicked gaze of a dying old man-no not panic, he was terrified.  Fleeting satisfaction as she glanced at the corpse of Ser Zephrim._

_“Tell me: why do you despise the primals so?”_

_“Your meddling ends here now, Warrior of Light!”_

_She hadn’t expected two of them-more fool her, is it a sign that they’re getting desperate?  As she sees the female trying to escape she doesn’t think, she flings out the white aurcite and grabs the Eye, tapping into its aether and calling forth her weapon of Light-as the stone shatters, she turns her attention next to Lahabrea-but the Eye’s power is fading, she can’t grab onto it-_

_“So not even the vaunted Warrior of Light can unmake an Ascian without relying on mortal contrivances.”_

_Staring up into the ruby eyes of Tiamat, feeling her heart break at her sad story…_

_“It hath been five thousand years my child.  Wilt thou not forgive thyself?”_

_“Nay Father.  I shall live with my regret until the world itself hath ceased to be.”_

_Standing in the midst of the Crystals, watching them shine once more-feeling that part of her that had been ripped out suddenly slide back into place, much like a puzzle piece would-_

_“Warrior of Light.  Beloved Daughter.”_

_Feeling the beginnings of the aether-drain but no, no, she’s not going to collapse.  Not here.  The place makes her feel unclean, she will leave the Reactor on her own two feet.  The sound of Estinien’s voice only strengthens her resolve, and she turns around to face him as he comes over.  She gladly hands him back the Eye, watching as the Azure Dragoon walks over to Ascalon…_

And it was with that memory that snapped everything into crystal-clear clarity for the Warrior of Light.  With a cry of pain her eyes flew open, and she tried to push herself out of the bed.

“Estinien!”  She doesn’t notice the person sitting by her bedside snap awake at her cry, nor them reaching over to try and keep her down.  “Estinien-oh gods!”

“She’s awake!”  The door opens and bodies rush in.  Hands reach out to steady her-trying to keep her from struggling.

“My lady-calm! Calm, please!”  The Warrior of Light struggles, her mind still trapped in the last events of the Reactor.

“Estinien-oh gods no, no, no!”  Her voice lifts in a wail.  Then a hand suddenly places itself on her forehead-and she faintly recognizes the aetheric surging as the pattern to a sleep spell before exhaustion overwhelms her.  Sagging into a pair of arms, she’s gently laid back down as another pair of hands stroke her hair.

“Rest my lady, just rest now.”  But she can’t rest, not with Estinien…  With a low moan, the Warrior of Light closes her eyes as the spell starts to take hold, more memories rising up.

 

_Pain stabbing though her side, and then the feel of something wet against her skin. A cry from Alphinaud as she places her hand on where it hurts and then pulls it away-blinking at the ruby red on her fingers.  Looking up, her blue eyes meet the shocked gazes of the Fortemps men, Aymeric, Y’shtola and Alphinaud._

_“I thought I healed that.”  She says.  “I’m…certain I did heal that.”  She’s very sure she did, on Midgardsomar’s back as they fled the exploding Reactor.  A flying piece of metal had stabbed her.  “I healed it so Y’shtola would not worry about it…”_  Then healing blackness brings an end to the memories, and the Warrior of Light is pulled under.


End file.
